Dead Hairy Page 3

  ***

  Coriander pulled her two front plaits out of Minnie’s hands. ‘Leave them alone, Min,’ she laughed. ‘They’re all I’ve got left of my family. This plait for Matt, this one for Perdita and the one at the back for me. They keep my hopes up.’

  Minnie tugged her hand.

  ‘All right dear,’ said Coriander, ‘I’ll play with you. After I’ve finished my letter. And please don’t wee on it, like you did on the last one.’

  4 - Rotten Lot

  ‘Are you OK darling? I was so worried.’ Mum turned round in the front seat with her stick-on smile.

  Abbie scowled from the back. ‘Course I am. Why does Dad need the car?’

  ‘He doesn’t.’ Mum took a hand off the steering wheel to smooth Bob. ‘I just wasn’t happy. That place is so –’ she gave a little shudder – ‘weird.’

  ‘What?!’ Abbie exploded. ‘You made it up, just so you could collect me early? How could you?’

  ‘Abigail,’ said Mum, meeting her glare in the rear view mirror, ‘we don’t know these people. It was for your own good.’

  ‘Your own good you mean,’ Abbie muttered. ‘I was having the best time ever. Their house is amazing. You wouldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Mum. ‘Persian rugs. Oak kitchen like the Bellinghams?’

  Abbie prayed for peace on earth and goodwill to all parents. ‘I didn’t get to see the kitchen, thanks to you. The whole place is a mess. I loved it. You’d hate it.’

  Mum ignored the insult. ‘What’s Mrs Platt like? My kind of person?’

  Abbie doubted that very much. ‘How do I know?’ She saw her chance for a neat little lie. ‘I was just about to go upstairs and meet her when you phoned. Perdita was so upset I had to go. She’s really nice.’

  ‘Please darling,’ said Mum, ‘I only did it to protect you. Look, maybe Perdita could come over to us next time.’

  And see what I have to put up with? thought Abbie. Why not? ‘Tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure.’ Mum unlocked the front door. The smell of tuna fish and orange slid up Abbie’s nostrils. Oh no. Dad must be doing dinner.

  He came out of the kitchen in a frilly white apron. ‘Hi Abbie. Everything OK?’ He waved a wooden spoon. ‘Mum was a bit concerned.’

  ‘I know,’ Abbie growled. ‘It was brilliant, Dad. They live in this museum. It’s full of hair. Mum ruined it.’

  ‘Hair?’

  Abbie sighed. ‘I mean hairstyles. From history.’

  ‘A costume museum. How fascinating. Wigs and dresses and all that?’

  Abbie nodded. Why explain more? It would only freak Mum out and ruin any chance of visiting again. ‘Yep. Beards and buns and –’

  ‘Buns!’ echoed Squashy, coming in through the front door. She smacked her palm against her head. Her wig slipped down her forehead. ‘Knew I’d forgotten somethin’. ’ She did a U-turn. Her shopping-bag-on-wheels ran over Abbie’s foot.

  ‘Ow!’ muttered Abbie. ‘Silly old –’

  ‘Abigail!’ said Mum, raising her eyebrows. ‘You know Grandma can’t see well without her glasses.’

  ‘Thanks for the sympathy.’ Abbie made a show of rubbing her foot, which didn’t hurt at all.

  ‘Don’t be long, Mother,’ Dad called as Grandma shuffled out of the front door. ‘Dinner’s in half an hour.’

  If you could call it that. It looked like one of Mum’s face packs, a brown and orange paste smeared on tortilla wraps.

  ‘I’ve called it fish ’n’ fruity funbites,’ announced Dad. ‘Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?’

  That’s what I’m worried about, thought Abbie.

  ‘The recipe says chicken,’ said Dad, ‘but I thought tuna would give more of a kick.’

  ‘Fish can’t kick,’ said Ollie, sitting down next to Abbie. ‘They haven’t got legs.’ He shrieked with laughter.

  ‘But I have,’ she said, kicking his ankle. He howled.

  ‘Abigail!’ cried Mum.

  ‘Stop that!’ barked Dad.

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Abbie. ‘Just a joke.’

  ‘You’re tellin’ me,’ said Squashy, appearing in the doorway and eyeing the table. ‘Joke of a dinner.’

  ‘Please try it, Mother,’ said Dad.

  Grandma glared at him and sat down – ohno – opposite Abbie. ‘Pass the salt.’ She shook the pot until her plate gleamed like a frosty morning. Then she grabbed the wrap in her fist and stuffed it into her mouth. The food hurtled round her open jaws like cement in a mixer. Every few bites her top teeth came unstuck. She half sucked, half shoved them back up with her thumb. Abbie’s jaw dropped in wonder at the sight.

  ‘Abigail,’ said Mum, ‘don’t eat with your mouth open.’

  The cheek. The unbelievable cheek. ‘But look at Gra–’

  ‘Abigail, I said close your mouth.’

  ‘You mean like this, Mummy?’ said Ollie, pressing his lips together and chewing prettily.

  ‘Exactly, darling. You see, Ollie can do it. And he’s only five.’

  ‘So,’ said Dad hurriedly, ‘tell us more about this museum, Abbie.’

  She stared at her plate. ‘I told you.’

  ‘Mum said it’s the most amazing building.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I thought you were very brave to go in, darling,’ said Mum in her sorry-without-actually-saying-sorry voice. ‘The whole place gave me the creeps.’

  They ate in silence – not counting Squashy’s slurping and slapping – until Dad said, ‘Who’s for seconds?’

  ‘Me,’ said Abbie, out of hunger rather than appreciation.

  Mum frowned. ‘Haven’t you had enough, darling? I’ve noticed you’re getting a bit of a tum.’

  That was it. ‘Leave me alone!’ Abbie shoved her chair back. She ran out of the kitchen, upstairs and into her bedroom. She slammed the door and hurled herself onto the bed.

  ‘Rotten,’ she snarled, ‘Lot.’ She kicked a cushion across the floor. She chewed a mouthful of duvet. She punched the pillow that Mum had made when she was a baby. She grabbed the photo of the family on the beach in Cornwall. ‘Rotten Lot!’ she shouted, and threw it across the room.

  Abbie stuck out her tongue at the photo. Then she went over, picked it up and sat on the edge of her bed. She blocked out Mum with her thumb. Why couldn’t she disappear instead of Mrs Platt? Perdita’s mum sounded brilliant. She wouldn’t collect Perdita early from friends with some stupid lie. She wouldn’t stop her having second helpings. She wouldn’t goo over maggoty little brothers.

  There was a knock at the door. Abbie dropped the photo onto the floor and pulled the duvet round her ears.

  ‘Can I come in?’ said Dad, who already had. ‘I’m sorry you’re upset, darling.’

  ‘Mum’s always on at me. She tells me off for everything. She hates me.’

  ‘Course she doesn’t. She loves you more than anything. She’s just trying to help.’

  ‘By picking me up early when I’m having the best time ever?’

  ‘She was worried about you.’

  ‘By telling me off when Grandma’s manners are ten times worse?’

  ‘You’re our daughter. Grandma isn’t,’ said Dad.

  ‘Wow, I’d never noticed,’ said Abbie sarcastically. ‘And Mum always makes a fuss when I want seconds.’

  ‘Join the club.’ Dad sat down on the bed and patted his stomach. ‘I guess she doesn’t understand our big bones.’

  Abbie nodded. Mum had the bones of a stunted sparrow and an appetite to match. Then she scowled again. ‘Why does she always take Ollie’s side? It’s like he’s this delicate little cutie pie.’

  Dad sighed. ‘He’s just younger than you, darling. And you can be a bit – rough.’

  ‘So he gets away with everything. Not fair!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dad. ‘We try to be fair. But you and Ollie – well, your needs are different. And I guess we all get it wrong sometimes.’ He put his arm round her. She glared at the ground. ‘Now,’ he said
brightly, ‘how about some Banoffee pie? A Dad special.’

  Which turned out to be banana with coffee instead of toffee. ‘Gives more of a kick,’ said Dad.

  As Abbie aimed for Ollie’s ankle again, a happy thought danced across her mind. Of course!

  Her foot froze. She took her pudding, said thank you, chewed politely, said thank you again, didn’t ask for seconds and offered to wash up.

  ‘How kind of you, darling. Don’t worry, I’ll do it,’ said Mum in her sorry-again-without-saying-it voice.

  ‘Can I phone Perdita then?’ asked Abbie. ‘You said I could invite her tomorrow.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Abbie ran up to her room with Mum’s cell phone and closed the door.

  The phone rang for ages. Then a soft singsong voice said, ‘Helloo?’

  ‘Um, may I speak to Perdita?’ asked Abbie.

  ‘Certainly. Who is it, please?’

  ‘Abbie Hartley.’

  ‘Oh, of course. This is her aunt speaking. Perdie’s told me all about you. So sorry to miss you. Do come again soon. Here she is. Toodleoo.’

  Perdita sounded breathless. ‘I had to run up two flights.’

  ‘I was wondering,’ said Abbie. ‘Could you come over tomorrow afternoon?’

  There was a pause. Then, ‘Thank you,’ said Perdita. ‘I just knew you would.’

  ‘Would what?’ gasped Abbie. ‘How d’you – ?’

  ‘I’ll be there at two. Bye.’

  Abbie switched on her tape recorder. ‘FRIEND IN NEED,’ she told the microphone. ‘In a fantastic show of friendship, plucky Abigail Hartley has promised to help her pal Perdita to find her long-lost mother.’ Abbie pressed the Pause button. How long did someone have to be lost to be long-lost? Oh never mind. She pressed Play again. ‘When asked what gave her the guts for such a mission, our heroic Abigail said, “It’s all thanks to the Rotten Lot. I can’t wait to get away from them.” ’

  ***

  Sitting at his desk, Matt breathed out with relief. Thank goodness that phone call was for Perdita. It would keep her out of the way for a bit. It was awful having to be so secretive: locking her out, avoiding her questions. But until these experiments worked – until he could make everything right – Perdita mustn’t know. Like Coriander, she’d never approve. He was playing with fire.

  Not that any sparks were flying yet. Matt sighed. Very carefully he picked up the centipede on his desk with a pair of tweezers. He dipped the creature into his latest potion. ‘Sorry, poppet,’ he whispered, ‘but it’s all for the best.’ He placed the centipede back on his desk and peered through his magnifying glass. Dark brown hairs were sprouting from its head.

  ‘Useless!’ exclaimed Matt, hitting his forehead. Even if the mixture had made the centipede’s legs stronger so that it could crawl faster, those new hairs would just weigh the creature down. So the overall effect would be – zilch.

  Matt burst into tears. Oh, for a shoulder to cry on. A comforting, cuddly Coriander shoulder.

  ***

  Coriander tapped Vinnie on the shoulder. ‘Wakey wakey,’ she cooed. ‘Bath time.’ Vinnie opened a lazy eye.

  Winnie was already in the tub pushing round a plastic duck with her finger. Vinnie yawned and clambered in with her.

  ‘You too, Minnie,’ called Coriander. ‘It’s lovely and warm.’ Minnie cowered in the corner.

  ‘All right,’ said Coriander. ‘I’ll put in extra bubble bath, just for you.’ She emptied half the bottle of Matey into the water. Minnie turned her back on Coriander.

  Coriander began to hum: a low, sweet tune she used to sing when Perdita was little. Slowly Minnie turned round. Slowly she came towards the tub. And slowly she climbed in.

  5 - Dandruff

  The next day at two o’clock sharp Perdita was at the door. She was clutching a plastic ice cream box. The battered green van was already driving away. ‘Dad’s off to charm a chimney,’ she explained.

  Abbie didn’t ask.

  Perdita bounded past her, through the hall, and into the kitchen. ‘Hi Mrs Hartley.’

  ‘Hello dear.’ Mum was peeling carrots.

  Perdita held out the ice cream box. ‘I baked these for you.’

  Mum wiped her not-at-all-messy hands and took the box. ‘How kind,’ she said, in a voice that you’d never guess had been banging on about That Weird Girl all morning. She opened the lid. ‘Biscuits. They smell delicious. We’ll have some later.’

  Ollie came in through the back door.

  ‘Hello again,’ said Perdita, letting loose more grin.

  ‘You look like a piano,’ he said.

  ‘Ollie!’ said Mum.

  ‘Louse,’ said Abbie.

  But Perdita was laughing. ‘Upright or grand?’

  ‘Come on,’ said Abbie, ‘let’s go outside.’ She slammed the back door behind them.

  Ollie squashed his face against the glass. He looked like one of those little dogs that old ladies dress in coats. ‘Can I come?’ he mouthed.

  Abbie shook her head. But Perdita opened the back door again and said, ‘Give us fifteen minutes. Then I’ll play catch with you.’

  Ollie’s eyes widened. ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Ollie did a happy hop and went away.

  ‘What d’you say that for?’ said Abbie. ‘I thought you’d come to see me.’

  Perdita did a handstand on the patio. ‘I haven’t got a brother. I’d love to play with him.’ She ran across the lawn. On the far side she stopped. ‘This hedge looks like it’s been dragged through a hedge,’ she said, peering at a mess of twigs and weed-choked stems. ‘Shall I trim it for you? I could do a pony tail.’

  Abbie came over. ‘I’m not sure what Mum would think about that.’ Or, to be more precise, what Mum would think the neighbours would think. ‘She’s not really into – um – plant art. Let’s go and sit in the treehouse. We can talk in private there.’

  On the other side of the hedge was another smaller lawn. In the far corner stood a tree. A jumble of planks clung to its lower branches. At the foot of the tree stood an old rabbit hutch.

  Perdita bent down and peered through the grille. ‘Where’s the rabbit?’

  Abbie kicked the hutch. ‘We haven’t got one. This was here when we moved in. And Dad’s never bothered to get rid of it. So it just sits there reminding me that we aren’t allowed pets.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Perdita, stroking the hutch as if it was a rabbit.

  ‘Mum says she’d end up cleaning it out – and she’s had enough poo for one lifetime from me and Ollie. And Dad says it’s too much hassle to get bunnysitters every time we go on holiday.’

  ‘Oh well. Brothers are better than pets,’ said Perdita. She hoisted herself into the tree.

  ‘My brother is a pet,’ said Abbie. ‘Teacher’s pet. Mother’s pet. Pet worm if you ask me.’

  Perdita sat down cross-legged on a rickety plank. She reached out a hand to help Abbie up. The plank sagged. ‘Did your dad make this treehouse?’ she asked.

  ‘Can’t you tell?’ said Abbie.

  ‘Maybe my dad could fix it.’

  ‘Your dad’s so cool,’ said Abbie.

  ‘Wait till you meet my mum,’ said Perdita. ‘When shall we go?’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘To Spain. To find her. All we need is the money for air fares. Plus a bit extra for emergencies.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Abbie. ‘I never said I was going to Spain!’

  Perdita threw up her hands. ‘Well how else are we going to find her?’

  Beyond escaping the Rotten Lot, Abbie hadn’t really thought up a plan. But Perdita was right. Of course they’d have to go. And Spain did sound rather fun – all those tortillas and toreadors.

  ‘Look,’ said Perdita. She shoved a hand into her pocket. Out came three crumpled five pound notes and a handful of coins. ‘I’ve got £22.75. I reckon we need about £30 more. You can get some really cheap flights these days.’

  Abbie had £3.32 in h
er piggy bank. The rest of her pocket money went on weekly essentials like Crunchie bars. ‘How are we going to make £30?’

  ‘Easy.’ Perdita jumped up. The plank creaked like Grandma on the loo. ‘There’s always loads of work to do round the museum. I asked Dad if he’d start paying me. So now he gives me £2 for every job. It adds up. And if you help out, he’ll pay you too. That’s seven and a half jobs each.’

  ‘Why not just ask him for the air fare?’

  Perdita snorted. ‘Why not ask a pig for bacon? Dad would never let me go. This is the first time I’ve been allowed to go anywhere on my own since Mum left. It’s like Dad’s scared I’ll disappear too.’

  Abbie rubbed her fingers along the plank, thinking hard. ‘So how will he feel if you do disappear? To Spain, I mean.’

  Perdita draped herself over a branch. ‘Mmm. That is a worry.’

  ‘Unless – ow!’ Abbie pulled a splinter from her finger. ‘Unless I go. Alone.’

  Perdita swung down to Abbie, nearly kicking her out of the tree. She shoved her face up close. ‘But what about your family? How would they feel if you disappeared?’

  Hmm, thought Abbie, now let me see. Grandma wouldn’t notice, Ollie wouldn’t care, Dad would look up famous disappearances in history and Mum would have a facial to cheer herself up. What she said was, ‘No problem – I can handle them. And it would mean only one air fare.’

  ‘I s’pose so,’ said Perdita, sounding a little doubtful. Well, as doubtful as a girl with big teeth and even bigger plans can sound.

  Ollie waved from the lawn.

  ‘Playtime,’ said Perdita. She jumped down from the treehouse.

  ‘By the way,’ whispered Abbie, as they went over, ‘don’t tell Mum about the museum. It’s way off her weird scale. If she hears it’s got real hair she’ll never let me come again.’

  ‘Then I’d better not tell her what’s in those biscuits I brought,’ murmured Perdita.

  ‘What is in them?’